10-09-2019, 12:38 AM
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire,
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost
Tormus had tasted desire. He and desire were old drinking buddies.
But there were moments when desire absolutely terrified him.
Desire made dwarves mad and did even worse things to pirates.
In his dreams, he saw the Honeydew again.
While not the largest plant in the jungles of the new world, it was by far the most pungent. A musky smell, emanating from a trunk as tall as seven dwarves, and a figure as chaste as a wizard's staff. If it was only that, the Honeydew would only be remembered in bawdy songs and sailor's legends.
The Honeydew leaked sap. And the sap leaked promise. It was said that those who drank from the Honeydew were granted visions of their wildest dreams: Harems full of nubile lads and ladies. Vaults full of treasure. Piles of socks that needed to be darned. Whatever a dwarf wanted a single sip of sap would grant it.
And the visions would last for the rest of your life, as the victim stayed there, perfectly content and perfectly still, as the plant slowly devoured them.
Tormus had managed to avoid the temptation of the Honeydew... if only because his nose was stopped up that day. But through a spyglass, he saw what the plant did to his crewmates. He never forgot the rapturous smiles of their dissolving faces. Nor the treasures and dreams they spoke of as they lay dying.
Since that day, he had always wondered what his own death vision would have been.
What form of desire might make a dwarf go so mad that they risked certain death for just a taste?
It had grown worse the past few weeks.
He had woken up smelling the Honeydew from all those years ago.
Was he awake?
Or was this all his fevered death dream?
It was one hell of a way to go.
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire,
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost
Tormus had tasted desire. He and desire were old drinking buddies.
But there were moments when desire absolutely terrified him.
Desire made dwarves mad and did even worse things to pirates.
In his dreams, he saw the Honeydew again.
While not the largest plant in the jungles of the new world, it was by far the most pungent. A musky smell, emanating from a trunk as tall as seven dwarves, and a figure as chaste as a wizard's staff. If it was only that, the Honeydew would only be remembered in bawdy songs and sailor's legends.
The Honeydew leaked sap. And the sap leaked promise. It was said that those who drank from the Honeydew were granted visions of their wildest dreams: Harems full of nubile lads and ladies. Vaults full of treasure. Piles of socks that needed to be darned. Whatever a dwarf wanted a single sip of sap would grant it.
And the visions would last for the rest of your life, as the victim stayed there, perfectly content and perfectly still, as the plant slowly devoured them.
Tormus had managed to avoid the temptation of the Honeydew... if only because his nose was stopped up that day. But through a spyglass, he saw what the plant did to his crewmates. He never forgot the rapturous smiles of their dissolving faces. Nor the treasures and dreams they spoke of as they lay dying.
Since that day, he had always wondered what his own death vision would have been.
What form of desire might make a dwarf go so mad that they risked certain death for just a taste?
It had grown worse the past few weeks.
He had woken up smelling the Honeydew from all those years ago.
Was he awake?
Or was this all his fevered death dream?
It was one hell of a way to go.
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge